


Only in Love and War

by spaceboyharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bottom Louis, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Dunkirk, Fighting, Happy Ending, Holocaust, M/M, Narrative Prose, Operation Dynamo, Prisoner of War, Sad Harry, Secret Relationship, Slave Harry, Slavery, Soldier Harry, Suggestive Themes, Top Harry, World War II, battles, larry stylinson - Freeform, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 15:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceboyharry/pseuds/spaceboyharry
Summary: Harry gets called to Dunkirk by the draft, but all that matters to him is getting home to his Lou.





	Only in Love and War

**Author's Note:**

> Hi loves, hope you enjoy!  
> -LouisexX

On September 1, 1939, I was at my little flat in Holmes Chapel, arms around my partner and cat in my lap as news of the beginning of World War II bled through the crackling speakers on my outdated radio. As they spoke of the upcoming turmoil and dreaded, inevitable drafting of troops, Louis’ hand gripped tighter on my own, his body pressed into my side. They described in detail the ghastly conditions in Germany, and how France and Britain had banded together following the invasion of Poland, and how this would be the “war to end all wars.” They say that during every war. They explained where to go to volunteer, what you could do on the home front, and the consequences for not having signed up for the draft if you were able bodied and 20. “We’ll be ok, Hazza, won’t we?” Louis asked, voice small, and eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Of course we will, love. I’d never let anything hurt my Lou.” 

On December 5, 1939, I was gripping the letter in my hand as I read the notice for my draft over and over again, waiting for the “just kidding” to materialize on the drab parchment, stamped with the Royal British Army seal. {Harry Edward Styles, 23, it is my duty to inform you of your conscription to The Royal British Army, and to alert you of your activation in the early days of this coming January. You are to report to your local recruitment office by no later than a month from this date, or disciplinary actions will be enforced. During this allotted time, it is your responsibility to take care of any family, work, or personal business and to have things settled. Yours thoughtfully, Winston Churchill, Britain Prime Minister.} That single paragraph sealed my fate. “You alright love?” Louis’ sudden voice startled me, quickly shoving the draft papers into my trouser pockets. “Fine, fine. Just getting the post, might head down to the barn and see if Bertha’s had her piglets yet.” I bit my cheek in guilt for lying, not having the heart to say anything that would take that smile off of his beautiful face. “Alright, see you in a few then. I made up a new recipe for supper tonight, so we might be activating the Hazza Emergency Meal Plan Initiative when it tastes bloody awful.” I smiled at him, face going stony as soon as he turned to walk into the house. If I was gone, who would feed him? Who would reassure him that though it made me gag, it didn’t make me vomit, which technically made it edible? Who would feed the animals, carry things around, hold his waist when he wanted to walk on much too high beams? Who would be there for my Lou?

On December 20, 1939 I had to tell him. It was eating me alive, and he had figured out that something wasn’t right. I didn’t smile anymore, I didn’t poke his cheeks and try to tickle him. I didn’t dance with him to the songs flowing from that POS radio. I sat, and I waited, and I sulked. “Harry, what’s wrong?” He asked in the midst of lunch, after a few tense minutes of just watching me rearrange the peas on my plate into a crooked SOS. He meant business, he almost never used my real name. I was his Hazza. With bated breath, I pulled the worn letter from my pocket, held together with adhesive from the many times I’d opened it to check and make sure that the words hadn’t changed. “Exempt from draft” hadn’t been present on any of the 97 double checks. His face paled as he looked at the letter, recognizing the blood red seal of the nation and the typewriter font spelling out our address. “Haz… please no.” He whispered, a tear running down his cheek. “I’m so sorry.” I choked out, biting my lip to hold back my own. I heard his chair screech against the floor and he was in my lap, arms curled around my neck, face pressed against my shoulder as he cried. “It’s not your fault Haz, never your fault .It’s that bloodthirsty government’s fault, always looking for a fight.” His wet words drove a stake through my already hole-ridden heart, and all I could do was hug him tighter and pray that I wake up from this nightmare. He was too good for this hell, too sweet and gentle. No one was better than my Lou. 

On January 5, 1939, I stood in the living room of our house, bag thrown over my shoulder and face still red from the last round of tears. Louis stood in front of me, holding on as tight as his little arms could allow, tears soaking through my shirt. “I don’t wanna lose my Hazza.” He whispered, breaking my heart even more. At this point it was scattered around my chest in little shards, digging out of my skin from the inside. “I’ll be back soon ok? Just me, you, and Dusty. The cow will have had her calf by then, and you’ll have another baby to play with since the piglets have grown so much. You can put flowers in my hair and I’ll dance with you, ‘till your feet go numb if that’s what you’d like. We’ll bake a cake and eat the whole thing, listen to any radio station you’d like. I’ll even teach you how to ride the motorbike. We can go for a ride to the fields and have a picnic, I’ll even make those ham sandwiches with the mystery dressing on them that you love. We can get a puppy to play with Dusty. We can sing as loud as we want, with no one to give us funny looks. We can do whatever we’d like to, together. Just me and my Lou.” 

On January 8, 1940, I was being herded like cattle through a line, droning men in bleak uniforms taking down my identification and handing me my things. You get a gun, a helmet, a uniform, boots, and a water canteen and suddenly you’re a soldier. “Name, age, and home?” The one with the clipboard asked, not even bothering to look me in the eye. We were just statistics and commodities to him. “Harry Edward Styles, age 23, L-um, Holmes Chapel.” I felt the tears well up again and a knot catch in my throat as I corrected my almost mistake. I almost called Lou home. He eyed me over his spectacles and held out his hand, “Identification?” I threw my sack down and pulled out my wallet, almost letting out a sob when I opened it to grab my ID card. Tucked beside my money and ration card, signed with his birdy scrawl, was the snapshot I took of Lou last summer, flower behind his ear and faerie grin intact as he reached out to me with a flower of my own. It’s still pressed in the journal in the drawer on my side of the bed. “I don’t have all day, contrary to popular belief.” The soldiers voice snapped me out of my memory, making me hold out my card on autopilot as I stood there. He looked it over and marked down my social security number, handing it back with a faux smile. “Welcome to the army, son!” I nodded and took my card back, shuffling to the next station to sign out my gear. I could have walked off a cliff right then if there was one nearby. The only thing my eyes were on was my Lou. 

On April 14, 1940, I was curled in my bunk somewhere in France, thin wool blanket and threadbare uniform doing nothing to keep the chill in the air at bay. I was a skeleton after over three months of training, another month to go before my first actual mission. I barely ate, and when I did it rarely stayed down, my ears permanently rang from the gunfire and the screaming of the drill sergeant, my palms were blistered from pushups, and my body bruised from contact fighting practice. I was given a gun and told to hit this target, hit that target, blow that up, take apart your gun, now reassemble it, now take it apart and do it quicker. They told me to jump higher, lift more, run faster, hit harder, and care less. They told me that in war there are no rules, that we are there to kill and go back home if we’re lucky. They told me to take a bullet for the boy next to me, but never to spare someone. They told me to shoot first and ask questions later, and to shoot to kill. They told me that real men enjoyed the kill, relished in it. They told me that I was no longer Harry Styles, I was Private Styles, Soldier, or Shadow, the affectionate nickname I was bestowed by my counterparts. They told me to speak up but to hold my tongue, to be angry but to never act brashly, and to fight but not to feel. They taught me to be a monster. My nickname came from another boy in my squad named Zayn, a fierce fighter, one of the rare volunteer fighters. He wanted to kill, languished in the thrill of gunfire and screams. At meal one day, he nudged his buddies and made his way to my table, unoccupied save myself and the base’s stray cat that associated me with a free meal, as I couldn’t stomach what they put down in front of me. “Hey Styles, what’s eating you?” He asked, expectantly waiting for me to reply. I just gave him a blank look and reached in my pocket, thumbing aimlessly at the photograph that held me together. “Hello, I’m speaking to you.” He said, waving his hand in front of my face. I still didn’t acknowledge him, just weighed the pros and cons of breathing in my head. “God, your name should just be Shadow, cause that’s about all you are. Freak.” He mumbled the last part, pushing away from the table and walking over to his own, thumbing back over at me, probably making fun of me. I don’t care. He doesn’t matter. No one matters. Only my Lou. 

On May 15, 1940, I stood in lines of thousands, getting my orders for our attack. We were to go to Dunkirk, and we were to kill. That was the gist of it. I couldn’t care less at that point though. None of the faces around me were the one that I wanted to see; none of them were Louis. They were all too brash, too loud, and too rough. None of them had a smile that could light up a room, or a voice so soft yet so well heard. None of them danced as they swept the room, or cried when their favorite potted plant died. None of them ran their hands through my hair and sang softly as the fire flickered down to ash on chilly nights. None of them laughed as they flicked flour in my face and then ran away, squealing when I caught them and swung them around. None of them laced flowers together and wore them as crowns, skipping through the market while buying groceries. None of them were my Lou. 

On May 30, 1940, I was terrified. Mortar fire rained down over my head, the occasional neighboring soldier dropping dead before my eyes. “Help is coming.” They said. They told us to wait and to fight back when we could. The day before, it was reported that 47,310 people were saved. Over 400,000 of us were stationed here. Ships sailed up and were sunk, few actually making it away with any passengers aboard. Operation Dynamo was failing us all. As the man next to me, I think it was Jack, screamed and fell to the ground, eyes glazed and hand limply covering his bloodied chest, I squeezed my eyes shut and thought of Louis, sitting on the railing of our porch, smoking a cig and swinging his feet, waving when he saw me round the corner after work, hands tucked in my pocket. I’m sure I looked and smelled terrible, being a mechanic wasn’t the cleanest of professions, but he still hugged me and kissed me, asking about my day. When I got home, we could fall back into this familiar routine, he could annoy me while I fed the animals, I could distract while he tried to grade papers, we could be together. I hit the dirt and covered my head, muffling my cry as the shell landed nearby, throwing sand and bodies everywhere. I would get out of this. All for my Lou. 

On June 4, 1940, I was exhausted and freezing. I had been knee deep in this water for two days, waiting a for ship to get me. Finally, the Tamzine anchored a ways off, the skipper waving for me and my crew to come forth. As we ran, I fell, getting knocked under the water and kicked in the ribs. I fought to stand again and scrambled for a seat, fighting tooth and nail for my spot on that ship. Zayn shoved me out of the way and climbed up, taking the last seat. I screamed and clutched at his coat, soaked in water and dusted with gunpowder and dyed with blood. “Let me go, I’m going home!” He yelled, trying to pry my fingers off. “Zayn, you’re trying to get home to walls and windows. I’m trying to get home to blue eyes and a heartbeat. Please.” The salt of the water and the salt of my tears mixed together, clouding my vision. He looked remorseful for only a second, then gritted his teeth, “Sorry Shadow.” With a final kick, he got me off of him and I hit the water on my back, standing upright again to see the ship, the last ship, sailing away, leaving me and countless others in the water. As I mourned my lost chance of survival, the beach was overrun by Nazi troops, guns at the ready. All I wanted to do was get home to my Lou.  
On December 24, 1943, I eased down onto the little mattress I was afforded, in the cramped bunkhouse I was kept in, after a day of building tanks for the Nazis. After that day on the beach I was forced at gunpoint to walk for 23 days, feet bleeding by the time we reached our destination. Then I was put in cattle cars on a train and shipped to Wherever, Germany, stripped of my uniform, handed an outfit of rags, and put to work. I’m just glad I had stored Louis’ picture in my boots, the only bit of myself they let me keep. Said it saved them a pair of shoes. First I stayed in a concentration camp, 20 people stacked in one room with no showers and rare excursions outside. One by one my roommates were taken out, some came back, but most didn’t. Finally it was my turn. The pulled me out of the building, harsh sunlight blinding me and hair all over the pace, considerably grown out. The shoved me into a seat before a man with a clipboard and dead eyes. “Name?” “Mick Greenberg.” I’ll be damned if I give them any of my real information. “Ah, I see we have a Brit. Lovely change from the Jews I’ve been putting up with. Are you Jewish or a homosexual?” he asked in broken English, biting out the words. I knew if I answered wrong, I would be killed before sunset. “No and no.” I whispered, thinking of Louis’ crinkled eyes and bitten lips. “Excellent. What were you before the war?” “A mechanic.” I told the truth on that one, knowing that if you had a useful skill set, they usually were more lenient. “That’s wonderful. Offizier? Take this one to the tankfabrik, and put him to work. Get him his uniform and a room there as well.“ I as dismissed with wave of a hand and escorted from the camp, passing by lines and lines of starving men, women, and children. People that would never get to leave. And that’s how I ended up here, perpetually stained with oil and hair grown down to my shoulders. You could see my ribs and my cheekbones were like craters, but i knew that was better treatment than most had. As the guard signaled lights out, I dug beneath my mattress and pulled out the snapshot of Louis, ink almost faded to white and corners frayed, damaged by light and water and grease. “Happy birthday Lou.“ I whispered, placing a featherlight kiss to the picture. One day I’ll get home. One day I’ll be with my Lou.

On September 4, 1945, I was saved. The hovel I had been sent to a few days prior when the war was ended was overrun by French militia, their flashlights illuminating the gaunt faces of myself and my dozen or so fellow slaves. They yelled to us in French, then one man stepped forward, speaking in English.“We’ve come for you. The war has ceased and you are to be returned home. You have survived.“ I couldn‘t help but cry. It was over. The beatings, the verbal abuse, the meager rationings, the slave labor, it was over. I could go home. I could go to my Lou. 

On October 13, 1945, I stood at the train station in France, the few items that I had in a suitcase by my foot. I was clean shaven and hair cropped once again, in clean pants and a new shirt, hole-free shoes on my feet and Louis‘ picture clenched in my fist. The whistle on the train sounded as the doors opened, beckoning in passengers. For the past month I had been shuffled from train to bus to horse, from clinic to hospital to newspaper. I was congratulated and questioned and hugged and gifted. None of it meant anything to me, not until i got home. As I stepped onto the train, I breathed in a sigh of relief. I was free, and I was so close to my Lou.

On October 22, 1945, I walked through Holmes Chapel, feet carrying me through town on autopilot as I walked, eyes trained on the house on the hill in the horizon. A few people recognized me and tried to speak, but i just brushed them aside and continued on my pre-destined path. He was like the opposite end of my magnet, pulling me in mercilessly. I could see laundry hung out on the line and smoke curling from the chimney, two cows in the pasture; Ares‘ baby full grown now. I headed up the driveway, stones crunching beneath my shoes. My motorbike was still leaned against the fencing, vines tangled in the spokes of the tires, but nothing some TLC couldn't fix. It would nice to work on something other than a tank for once. There were baby chicks running after their mother hen in the front yard, and my chair was sat next to his on the porch, still facing the pond down at the bottom of the pasture. The shutters were still that awful shade of green that Lou said matched my eyes, but I didn‘t see the comparison. With a pounding heart, I walked across the porch, running my hand along the backs of the chairs. The only thing different were that there were no plants placed haphazardly, tripping me up and bringing bees onto the porch. Plants were Louis‘ happiness, where was his happiness? My hands shook as i knocked on the door, tears already prickling in my vision. I heard the humming from inside stop and feet padding across the tile, light as air like always. The door handle jiggled as it turned, and then I stopped breathing. Louis had changed so much, he had grown a bit of a beard and there were way too many frown lines for such a pretty face. He gasped and covered his mouth, eyes wide like he had seen a ghost. One tear slipped own as he stared at me, body starting to tremble.“Hazza?“ He whispered, voice breaking. “Hey Lou.“ He sobbed and threw himself forwards, wrapping himself around me and fisting my shirt in his little fists, cries wracking his body. “They told me you were dead!“ He cried, pulling back look at me, only to crumble against me again. “And leave my Lou? Never. I told you I was going to come home. I’ll always come home to my Lou.“

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment loves!  
> -LouisexX


End file.
